


The Songs of Silence

by nesrynfaliq



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Nightmares, Pre Relationship, Slow Burn, acomaf, acomaf spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:30:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6980677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nesrynfaliq/pseuds/nesrynfaliq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ACOMAF Spoilers: set mid-ACOMAF after the Inner Circle visits The Court of Nightmares to retrieve the Veritas. The visit brings up memories for Mor that result in her having nightmares. Azriel comforts her in the aftermath and takes her somewhere quiet where they can be alone while she recovers with him at her side.</p><p>He rests a hand on her back and rubs slowly in big, broad circular motions that seek to calm and soothe her and anchor her to him the way he’s done a hundred times before. Voice kept low and soft and smooth he murmurs to her, hushing her, telling her that he’s here now, that it’s all right, she’s safe, they can’t hurt her anymore, he’s here, he won’t let them, she’s safe, she’s okay, it’ll all be okay. Over and over again he whispers those words to her, like a prayer that, if spoken often enough and with enough conviction might be answered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Songs of Silence

Silence reigns in the House of Wind. The only break in it is the soft scratch and whisper of Azriel’s pen across the paper in front of him, printing rows of neat text – as even and organised as the soldiers drawn up in ranks in Cassian’s armies – orders for his spies seeded into the Court of Nightmares. After what happened there he’s deemed it prudent to monitor the situation a little more closely for the time being until things settle down again, for all their sakes.

It’s late, well past midnight, and the shadows that wreathe him in the same way that smoke hovers above a fire seem to urge him to take refuge in the lingering calm oblivion that sleep offers. But he can’t. Visiting that place, playing that role, embracing the kind of sinister darkness that he did today always unsettles him. He knows himself well enough to be sure that sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight – and even if it came the horrors it would bring with it wouldn’t be welcome.

He shifts slightly in his seat, ruffling his wings to relieve the cramps that have built up in them after hours of being tucked in against his body while he works. A faint breeze whispers in through the open window and he rubs absently at his arms, bare to the elbows, the sleeves of his loose shirt rolled up to protect them from ink droplets spattering from his pen.

Rolling his shoulders to work the knots from them he pulls a fresh sheet of paper towards him, thinking to start on his latest report for Rhys. The pen barely makes contact with the surface of the parchment before a scream that chills his blood and the sound of shattering glass tears through the still silence like honed steel through flesh.

His pen snaps between his contracting fingers, spraying ink across the notes and documents arranged on his desk in a fountain of ebony, looking for all the world like black blood but he’s already on his feet and moving, the pen and report already barely more than distant memory.

Stepping out into the corridor he marks the few servants scurrying away from the disturbance and nods to them, ushering them on. He meanwhile moves towards the sounds of chaos, chasing down the storm that waits for him before it breaks entirely and tears apart the fabric of their world in its raging fury.

When he reaches her bedroom the halls around him are quite empty, experience having long ago taught the staff to flee when the destructive power that lurks beneath her skin breaks loose, heedless and terrible as a furious ocean slamming relentlessly into a cliff face.

He carefully eases the door open and slips inside, silent as the shadows that forever circle him. Her chambers are bright, elegant, and vibrant, reflecting their owner. But right now they look like the churned, violence-stricken battlefield in the aftermath of two armies clashing on it.

 Books have been hurled from their shelves and lie, forlorn and forgotten as dead soldiers on the floor, their spines broken, their pages ripped and shredded; her beautiful clothes have been strewn across the places, ripped and stained with ash and smoke; her battered furniture chipped and smashed form a minefield of splintered wood between the two of them; the shards of glass from the shattered window still fly through the air like arrows, scratching and tearing at his exposed wings and skin.

And at the centre of it all; the eye of the violent hurricane of magic that has exploded from her in its desperate bid to protect her from whatever terror she was being forced to relieve she hunches amid torn and smoking sheets at war with herself.

The destruction barely even registers with him as he crosses the ravaged room. All of his focus is pinned solely on her, the raging magic little more than blurred background noise. Azriel reaches her at last and in a single, fluid motion he lowers himself down onto her four poster bed and folds her into his arms without a thought for the lethal, furious power that still erupts from her.

She had been sitting bolt upright a moment before, staring straight ahead of her before he reached her – a doe finding itself confronting a monstrous wolf it knows it can never out run- but when he draws her in to him her rigid body yields and melts gratefully against his solid, anchoring warmth.

He hates seeing her like this, hates the pain and fear they can still make her endure even centuries later and he knows that she hates the power that surges from her – a wild beast who’s leash is finally cut freeing it from her considerable control – and the damage it does more than anything else.

But he’s not afraid of it. He trusts her too intimately for anything as base as fear. In the centuries he’s known her he’s seen the blackest fire burn in those rich, caramel eyes, making her feral and horrifying, he saw exactly what she was capable of and he never shrank from it. It purred at the scent of the monster buried deep within his own chest, that creature constructed from icy rage and the screams that are confined to black pits and shadow the innocent should never look upon, the thing that’s bloodied his hands and soul countless times over the years.

And he knew – in that moment he knew – when her darkness called to his that she would never fear his unearthly shadows or the things he was willing to do for those he loved and he would never fear the limitless potential for death and violence and the destruction of everything any of them had ever known that lurked so sleek and quiet beneath her smooth skin.

They were kindred spirits of light and dark and her soul knew that truth. Even now, at her most vulnerable, when even those closest to her might hesitate to go to her he did not.

 He knew that the magic that burned in her blood sought only to protect her from the demons that constantly circled, prowling on the edges of her being with foaming mouths and blood red eyes, waiting for the moment they would be allowed to tear her apart – and it knew he wanted the same thing. It recognised him, even when she was in this state, so unlike herself, it knew him as friend, as protect her and it would not harm him – she would never let it.

The chips of broken glass still pepper his skin with small cuts, whipped around by the frenzy of power that still explodes from her but he ignores them all, only drawing her deeper into the shelter of his arms when he feels them slice at him, shielding her body with his own.

He rests a hand on her back and rubs slowly in big, broad circular motions that seek to calm and soothe her and anchor her to him the way he’s done a hundred times before. Voice kept low and soft and smooth he murmurs to her, hushing her, telling her that he’s here now, that it’s all right, she’s safe, they can’t hurt her anymore, he’s here, he won’t let them, she’s safe, she’s okay, it’ll all be okay. Over and over again he whispers those words to her, like a prayer that, if spoken often enough and with enough conviction might be answered.

All the while he can feel her fighting to regain control as magic continues to tear free of her and threatens to rip her to shreds along with it to let it truly be free to destroy the world that hurt her so cruelly and with so little thought or mercy. She shudders and convulses so badly in his arms that he fears she’ll break and he tries so hard to hold her together.

Her body feels so delicate and fragile – so small when she’s pressed into his arms, against his broad, muscled chest, stripped of her usual presence that always makes her instantly fill any room she enters. He would never make the mistake of underestimating her due to her appearance, as so many before him had and paid the price for their lapse in judgement, but here and now, with her huddled against him, vulnerable and breaking every instinct roars at him to protect her.

Gently, so gently, he rocks her back and forth, keeping her close, all the while. Her hand grips the back of his loose shirt with a fierce, desperate strength, trying to tether herself to something, to him, as she threatens to drift away into the ever beckoning abyss of her own past and the horrors it contains.

In answer he wraps his arms more tightly around her, lifting her easily onto his lap and holding her there. She nestles in against him, her face buried into his chest where she can feel the reassuring heat of his skin through the thin material of his shirt. Her shoulders shake violently as she sobs without restraint, her breathing coming in great, stolen gasps she has to fight for, that rip through him too due to their proximity and he winces in sympathy at each one.

This is the only time he ever sees her cry this way and he despises it and the bastards that caused her so much agony and distress. He lets none of the rage he feels show in his movements or bearing whenever he reaches up to brush away her tears with tender, scarred hands. That icy fury isn’t what she needs from him now and so he keeps it contained, leashes it tightly and refuses to give it an inch when she needs quiet compassion and companionship from him now.

Azriel glances over her shoulder after a few minutes spent cradling her against his body and finds Rhys standing in the doorway concern etched into every line of his elegant features. Az’s face tightens slightly at the sight of his High Lord. He knows why Rhys is here, that he’d use his power to gently coax her back into sleep to stop her own magic doing any more damage. She hates it. They both know she hates it, being forced, however gently, to yield to that crushing darkness she’s fighting so hard to escape and that inevitably, no matter how hard Rhys tries to spare her she’ll be forced back into her nightmares again with no way out.

So when Azriel catches his brother’s eye and nods once, letting him know she’ll be okay, that he can calm her down and help her regain control Rhysand only nods back then slips out, shutting the door quietly behind him, leaving them alone together, trusting Azriel to contain things and take care of her until this passes.

If Mor noticed her cousin’s small intrusion she makes no mention of it as her breathing becomes a little easier, shallow and ragged but no longer the panicked, heaving gasps that racked every inch of her. Tears still flow from her bruised, red-rimmed eyes but they’re calmer and muffled now as she tries to stop them. Magic still pulses from her but with less and less frequency and intensity as she drags the reluctant power back into herself.

He continues holding her as the trembling starts and one of his burned hands lifts from her back to gently stroke her sweaty hair. Her hand grabs large fistfuls of the front of his shirt and she tugs with surprising strength, pulling him as close to her as possible, as though if she could she would fuse their bodies together, become a part of him, as though they’re two halves of a single being separated for all these centuries that she now longs to join into a cohesive whole once more.

Understanding what she needs from him he shifts himself on her bed then gently folds his great wings around her, encasing her entirely in him, blocking out the world and containing the last dregs of her uncontrolled magic. They linger together in that warm, soft darkness, their scents entwining and calming her until she goes limp against him, the horrible tension that had trembled through every fibre of her finally dissipating, leeched away by the soothing, anchoring presence of him surrounding her and at last the iron bands around her chest loosen and allow her to breathe again.

Once she’s settled out against him and he senses that she’s ready he carefully opens his wings again, releasing her from their protective cocoon and gives them a little shake before folding them tightly into his body again. Despite him opening up his wings and letting the now steady, cool air tug at her loose hair and provide a balm to her scorching skin she makes no move at all to withdraw from him and remains nestled in to him, her body tucked almost seamlessly against him.

Azriel remains still on the bed, giving her all the time she needs; ready to leave her the moment she asks him to. But Mor just closes her eyes and rests her head on his shoulder and his shadows wrap gently around them both. The flicker of a smile dares to tug weakly at her lips in response. He keeps one arm wrapped around her back, his hand coming to rest lightly in the valley between her shoulder blades while his other settles on her thigh, keeping her coiled into a ball on his lap.

Eyes still closed her fingers drift down his arm stopping at his wrist. Her lips mouth soundlessly as she counts in time with his pulse, anchoring herself to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, something real and tangible, something that coaxes her slowly back to herself bit by bit. He quietly monitors her breathing, stilling himself so as not to disturb her and feels himself relax as it finally levels out and returns to normal.

After a long moment she stops and withdraws her hand, bracing it on his forearm instead then looks up at him, her rich haunted brow eyes, darker and more shadowed than usual by what she’s endured, the leaden weight that still drags down her soul, meet his reassuring hazel ones that contain just as many monsters and nightmares but right now are composed and steady as a still mountain lake and she clings to that, that calm laced with quiet understanding.

“Take me away,” she rasps, her voice raw and ragged and utterly exhausted.

He doesn’t say a word; doesn’t need to, this is a dance they’ve done so many times over the centuries that both of them are acting more from instinct than anything else. He knows the steps, what she wants and needs from him, what’s expected of him.

So he wordlessly gets to his feet, gathering her with him in his arms and pauses only long enough to pick up one of her thick travelling cloaks and drape it around her before he lets his wings snap out and launches them into the air through her window.

If she had simply wanted to escape from the room that had contracted to a cage, a prison, tainted by her past, by the things that had torn her raging and screaming from sleep then she would simply have winnowed herself somewhere. He knows she longs for a different kind of escape – something that makes her feel truly free – something he’s well familiar with as it’s the same thing he experiences every time he spreads his wings and lets the heavens claim him.

He flies in lazy, arcing circles over the city with her held safely in his arms, the cool air whipping her hair around her face. There’s something truly beautiful about the city of Velaris when seen from above and he savours it even as he savours the rushing, limitless feeling of the potential that slips past his wings with every powerful stroke. The potential to go anywhere to experience whatever he wishes, the potential to just soar through the endless skies for eternity; to escape the chains and shakes he sometimes still feels on his body and forget that the world below exists at all.

He savours it – every inch, every breath, every heartbeat he spends airborne. Even though it’s been centuries he still remembers that cell, that cage they stuffed him in to and the way they refused to let him fly, the way his pinned wings howled at him to do and he’s still grateful for this gift, for this feeling, for this freedom.

When he glances down at Mor again to check on her he realises that she isn’t watching the star strewn city below them; she’s watching him. There’s an odd expression on her face – such a tender, understanding warmth there that he feels as though she can read every thought, feel every raw emotion that surges through him, as though she can find some lost scrap of soul in his hollow eyes and can see straight to the core of him. The shadows that flow like water around him fade into nothing as though inviting her in deeper still.

He doesn’t dare let the look linger between them and focuses on their surroundings again with a piercing intensity that’s quite unnecessary to navigate the smooth currents of air around the city as he banks gently away from it, angling into the mountains and to a favourite spot of hers that he knows will bring a smile to her face.

He flies fast towards it; faster than he would ever dare fly when carrying anyone other than her, letting the rushing air roar in his ears and the thrill of it engulf them both, stripping away fear and doubt and anything that isn’t blissful, reckless pleasure at the way the world slips away beneath them, carrying them to a place where she can once again find that wicked, wild grin he loves so well.

They land in lush, soft green grass that covers the bank of a still lake that perfectly mirrors the dark night sky and the ocean of stars it suspends above them. Mor’s smile becomes softer and warmer and – beautiful when she recognises the place he’s brought them to as he sets her down with aching gentleness, aware of how her body will hurt and throb after the nightmare ravaged and wrecked it, gently arranging her cloak around her shoulders to keep her warm before he withdraws.

Settling quietly down beside her Azriel watches her closely as she closes her eyes and lifts her head to the dancing heavens splayed overhead and reminds herself how to breathe and feel things other than the pain and fear and despair they trapped her in as a child.

Finally, drawing her knees up to her chest and propping her chin on them she opens her eyes and glances to him before she mumbles with a choked laugh and a forced lightness that doesn’t convince either of them, “The Court of Nightmares indeed.”

He stiffens, inwardly wincing in sympathy for her, for all that she’s endured. Cautiously he extends his hand to hers until they brush against one another. She doesn’t pull away from his touch, only splays her fingers a little wider to make room for his as he laces them together and squeezes gently, the calluses from sword play and war training rough against her smooth skin – like sand rasping over polished porcelain.

“One day,” he says, his tone soft yet harsh all at once, making her look up at him, into his now blazing eyes, “We’ll go back there,” he swears to her, voice low and controlled, thumb gently stroking the back of her hand, that tenderness balancing out the promise of violence etched into every lethal line of his warrior’s body, “You, and me, and Cassian and we’ll kill them all for what they did to you,” every word leaks quiet sincerity and truth but the shadows swirling around him like mist lighten when he adds a further pledge, “And we’ll rebuild you a Court of Dreams of your own in their place.”

The smile that graces her lips at his words is warm and frank. She moves in a little closer to him in the grass and presses her brow against his in gratitude, squeezing his scarred hands. They linger together that way for a long moment, the clouds of their hot breath mingling together in the cold air as they hold each other in quiet companion ship, warmth radiating from them both.

She shifts slightly and he takes the hint and withdraws, though their hands remain joined, his rippling, ruined flesh fading smoothly into her unblemished skin, their fingers still twined together. She looks out across the lake again, the perfect mirror of its surface eerily undisturbed by the light breeze that lifts the tendrils of her unbound golden hair.

“But not today,” she says, so quietly her words are almost stolen by the wind but he hears and understands, “Today we just endure...”

He raises the hand he had braced in the soft cool grass behind him and rests his cool palm against her neck. The bare skin is still feverishly hot to the touch and her shoulders slump in relief at the refreshing contact. Slowly, he drags his knuckles down her spine until she shivers and smiles, the tension that bad built up in her bones releasing again.

Then she turns to look at him again and the faint spark of light he’d managed to kindle in her eyes gutters out like a candle in the face of a hurricane as she takes him in. Swallowing hard past the lump building in her throat she reaches out a trembling hand and brushes it over his wing – soft and supple like worn leather but also peppered with small, jagged cuts from the broken glass that had whipped around her room like a hailstorm.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers hoarsely, her voice thick.

Her fingers continue to roam over the damage and he knows that it kills her that she’s too drained from the chaotic destruction her power had wreaked on the world to find any strength left right now to heal him, even though he’d barely felt any of it.

He catches her bloody fingers in his hand and gently rubs them clean while she gazes imploringly into his quiet eyes. “It’s alright, Mor,” he murmurs softly.

“It’s not,” she snaps, voice brittle and breaking like a cracking whip, body taut as a bowstring that’s been pulled back past its limit and now quivers and begs to be released by the cruel hands that hold it.

She looks away, unable to bear it, hugging herself again, shrugging off his touch, his absolution and forgiveness that she feels he gives too easily as she adds tightly, “And I’m sorry about the fire.”

He tightens almost imperceptibly at that but he knows she senses it all the same – they know each other too well, are too used to one another and conscious of one another’s typical movements and behaviours to miss anything even though the rest of the world might never notice it.

The embers in the grate had been thrown into a wild, roaring inferno by the power that radiated through every inch of that room and the old instincts buried deep beneath his scarred skin had flared and howled at him to run at the sight of them and had then _begged_ him to flee when flashes of flame had burst in the air before him.

But he had mastered himself for her sake. He would walk through every fire hell might throw at him for her – would burn himself to ash and smoke if it would spare her pain or suffering. And he had long ago ceased fearing the golden flames that crackled in her blood.

Reaching out tentatively he lays a questioning hand on her shoulder, relaxing when she doesn’t throw him off this time and instead turns slowly to face him again. His hand gives her a soft squeezes and he finds a quiet, wry smile for her when he says, “I’m sure I’ll survive.”

She doesn’t smile back. There’s no trace of that wild, reckless grin on her uncharacteristically dark and serious face when she says with lethal softness, “Do you still dream about it?” she asks, her eyes never releasing their hold on his, her fingers lightly skimming over the surface of his burned skin. “What they did to you when you were a child?” she clarifies, voice dangerously quiet.

A child. They had both been children in truth when these things had happened to them. Children who should have been sheltered and protected by the very ones who had done so much damage and caused them so much pain. Perhaps that’s why they cherish the family they’ve found in Rhys’ inner circle more than anyone else might quite believe because they understand the true depth of what that word means, what it’s supposed to stand for and what it is to have people who will stand up and fight for you and protect you and love you unconditionally they way they love each other.

It’s his turn to look away from the blazing look in her eyes, so full of pain and fury, and out over the still peaceful look and then on to the distant horizon beyond.  

“Yes,” he tells her finally, feeling her body go rigid beside him.

It was thoughts of those nightmares that had kept him from sleep tonight. The claustrophobic darkness pressing in around him. The cold iron chains that rubbed his skin raw and made his wings ache. The flicker of light in the black that hadn’t looked like hope or freedom but agony and destruction. The reek of oil. The triumphant roar of the fire – a starving beast delighted to feast upon his flesh. The sound of his screams. The echoing din of brother’s cruel laughter. The pain. The terror – not that he would die, but that it would never end-

Mor’s tender hand on his arm draws him back to her, out of the blinding memory that had for a moment overwhelmed all of his senses and obliterated his sense of self and reality and into the safety of her rich caramel eyes. He covers her hand with his own and squeezes – telling her it’s okay, he’s okay, before she tries to apologise.

Taking a deep, steadying breath he grips a handful of the lush grass around them – anchoring himself to this, to what’s real. Then he says slowly, “It isn’t the fire that bothers me the most anymore,” his wings rustle, the edges of one lightly brushing her back as he adjusts his position beside her, “Not since you-“ he begins without thinking then catches himself breaking off and shifting again.

He collects himself and then goes on, voice a little softer now as he says, “Not since I realised that it could be beautiful and good – that it could light up the darkest places that needed it most,” their eyes meet again and he continues before either of them can linger over his words for long enough to think more deeply about their meaning, their intent, “The darkness never scared me – not even then, not when it used to sing me to sleep,” as if in response the shadows that  whisper around him seem to ripple and darken to prove the truth of this  but he trails off, a shiver sparking along his bones with a feeling like flint striking stone, rasping and scratching.

“It was the chains I hated,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. His hands clench into fists, the nails biting deep into his palms, the sharp sting stopping the claustrophobia taking hold of him and clamping a vice around his chest where the creeping, cursed panic is beginning to take root again, “And I feared that cell they stuffed me in to the most. My cage, my prison...For a crime for which I could never atone; for being born bastard and disappointing every hope they had that I would die and rid them of me.”

A shadow darker and crueller than the ones that cling to him hollows out his eyes at the thought. Her hand extends out to him through the darkness that envelopes and threatens to suffocate him and she squeezes his hand gently, her fingers tangling with his and connecting them, an unbreakable bond that calls to him and sings to him in her voice when he most needs something to hold on to.

“Your brothers didn’t suffer enough for what they did to you,” she spits with a raw viciousness she rarely ever lets others see.

The ghost of a smile flickers across his smooth features at that memory but he sobers as he returns his gaze to her, studying her closely, noting how pale and drawn she looks, the dark circles like bruises that linger under her eyes.

“Are you all right?” he asks her, quiet concern lacing every word.

She doesn’t answer at once, choosing instead to gently rest her head on his shoulder. His arm loops unconsciously around her waist, drawing her in even closer to him in response, a protective, instinctive gesture that she accepts without question or protest, welcoming it in this moment.

Finally, she murmurs quietly, “I will be,” his hand rises from her waist and begins rubbing her back again. She smiles slightly at the soothing, absent motion and nestles in to him, “But I want to stay here with you for a little while longer yet.”

He gently kisses her brow and says, “We can stay here all night if you need to.”

She finds a warm smile for him and burrows in to his comforting warmth feeling safe, truly safe, for the first time since she awoke that night as he lazily extends one of his wings to shelter her as the wind picks up and causes her to shiver slightly.

“Thank you, Az.”

He just nods to her and continues to tenderly rub her back until she’s drifted off to sleep with her head pressed against his chest. When she’s so deep in her slumber that he knows her dreams are peaceful and quiet and he won’t disturb her he carefully gathers her up in his arms and takes flight, carrying them back home to Velaris.

When he again lands in her bedroom someone – he suspects Rhys – has put it back to the way it was before the outburst of her power ravaged it, all of the considerable damage repaired in their absence. Only the window remains bare, it’s glass not yet restored, no doubt to allow them to return in this manner.

Mor stirs sleepily in his arms as he lays her back down in her bed but he murmurs soothingly to her, explaining that he’s brought her home and she can go back to sleep now, that everything’s all right still. She bobs her head in acknowledgement of his words then whines pathetically until he smiles and pulls the blankets up around her to keep her warm, tucking them in to her body.

“I’ll be nearby if you need anything, okay?” he says patiently, knowing it may take a while to get an answer from her while she lingers in the strange twilight between waking and dreaming.

She nods at him at last, fumbling clumsily through the blankets piled on top of her for his hand and giving it a feeble, thankful squeeze without opening her eyes when at last she finds it as she nestles down into her pillows.

Gently, he strokes back her hair and leans down to softly kiss her forehead, aware as he does so that she’s already drifted back into the sanctuary of her quiet dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! And thank you for all your comments on the other fics I've posted so far, I appreciate them so much it makes writing much easier.


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